


The Warmth of His Touch

by Charli



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Memories, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charli/pseuds/Charli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean remembers his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Warmth of His Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Set two weeks after the end of Season 5.

When had it gone?

Dean didn’t really know. It seemed as if it had been there one minute, and then gone the next. He hadn’t realised it was missing until suddenly it was conspicuous by its absence. Its passing had been so silent, so unremarkable, that he’d missed it. Eclipsed by catastrophe and apocalypse he wondered whether, had he been looking for it, waiting for the moment, if he would’ve seen it. Or if the disappearance had been so gradual that, with everything else that had been galloping their way, if it would’ve barely registered on his reality.

Either way the fact remained, it was gone. He mourned it initially as most men do, without tears or comment. Simply noting that it was no longer there seemed to be time and emotion enough. Piecing a life back together, acutely aware of the physical loss and the ironic presence of the missing space, he allowed his soul to remain deaf to the cries of his heart.

But finally here he was two weeks later, watching from the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniels and an empty stomach, the yellow blimp-shaped balloon, advertising a local used car lot, as it danced and waved above the tops of the buildings. The ghost of a voice whispering his name somewhere deep inside his head and he found he was finally allowing himself to reflect on the past and on the passing.

*

It had been sex born of fire. They had risen like a phoenix from the ashes and they burned with the fury of a thousand suns.

“Everytime you touch me,” Sam had whispered to him once upon a time in the darkness, “I think an angel gets its wings.”

It had gone on for so long that Dean couldn’t even remember the first time. He thought that sometimes it had been in a field of wheat and if he strained his memory, he could visualise the field of gold, rippling gently as it was touched by a light breeze, a breeze that raised goosebumps on their young virgin flash.

Shirtless and damp from running, they became a tangle of lean limbs recoiling from playful punches. Slapping turning to grasping, punching turning to biting and maybe it was the warm summer wind, or the smell of the ripening wheat but he did remember finding himself hypnotised by the thin blue lines of Sam’s veins running beneath his lightly tanned skin.

When Sam had turned his wrist as he reached out to touch Dean’s chest, Dean saw where the skin stretched itself tight across the bone and veins were more pronounced, standing proud against muscle. Dean fancied he could hear the rush of warm blood racing its way around his brother’s body.

Sam’s hair brushed the bottom of his chin and Dean breathed in his scent, denim, diesel and dangerous. He pressed his mouth to Sam’s ear and asked him “Do I scare you?”

Sammy had turned and pressed his face up close to Dean’s, “No.”

Neither of them had blinked. The dance around this particular moment was over and a silent understanding was reached between them. The need drove them as much as love or destiny, or DNA. Isolated together, outcast by their choices, they found something within each other that quietened the voices and the desperation.

Dean loved to press his head to Sam’s chest and let it rise and fall with every breath. To watch the secret parts of him swell with pleasure until heat and wanting overcame them. And so it was in the moments when Dean felt the warmth of his brother’s touch that he stopped wanting to die. Wanted to stay free, knowing that they alone understood each other, and that they had found themselves when they were finally alone in the aftermath.

*

Now just the unanswered question remained.

When had it gone?

The warmth of his touch.

Dean didn’t know and he didn’t want to care. Everything was undone. Everything was unravelling. And the yellow balloon was still dancing its endlessly futile escapology waltz, and he thought he understood where the balloon was coming from.


End file.
